


the opposite of blindness

by farnear



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: (all brief and more implicit than anything), Multi, Pre-Canon, Pre-Season/Series 03, Self-Esteem Issues, depictions of mental illness, depressive episode and aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farnear/pseuds/farnear
Summary: All he knows is: he will be happy when it snows in June.





	

**Author's Note:**

> a birthday fic with a crush, sonja and buoys in it (i promise there is a crush). 
> 
> i owe lots to asey who beta'd the fic itself and spent last couple weeks figuring out even with me.

I.

He returns to the image he has been returning to for some time now. The view is like a buoy’s, half-sunk in the ocean. All you see is the deep water and the deep sky and a far thin whiteness of the horizon. You don’t know if it’s the dry land, or the glimmers of sunlight on the waves, together a dense blinding line. There is no music, no voice-over. Just the buoy in the dead hour.

 

The other image: a framed shot, if it were a shot and not a memory. A window of a dark attic, a rectangle of light on a wall, and a rectangle of white on a bed, where Sonja lies in the t-shirt they wore in turns. Behind the window, a branch of an apple tree, delicate twigs and small flowers, and on the flowers: snow. An anomaly. He sat on the edge of the mattress and watched the snowflakes melt in the buds. He sat and knew nothing but: it snowed in June and: he was happy.

 

He holds the two images together and, biting the tip of his mechanical pencil, he wonders if they are the shots to be made, and if they belong together. It’s not his style. On the other side of the printout from the teacher – a timetable? – he drew a buoy stuck in a tree, its anchor loose down like a swing, or a torture device. The guy next to him asks if Even draws, and Even says yes. They talk, and smile, and he must have made a good come-back just now, because the guy – Even knows his name, he has just said it, too – the guy throws his head back and laughs for real. Even adds the shade to the tree, the folds to the trunk. He woke up today, and had a shower, and had a breakfast, and took a tram – 12 – and arrived at Nissen, where he is now, at Nissen, and he went to the offices to finish the paperwork, and introduced himself to his teachers, and to his classmates, and he has made friends, he has collected names, and phone numbers, and the stories from the summer and the gossip from the school – but, all he knows is: he will be happy when it snows in June.

 

He would need a waterproof camera and a boat. They must rent boats somewhere. Then row and – carefully lower the camera into the water to catch the tense border between the two blues. Oh, shit – he stops – he would need a licence for the boat. He blinks and realizes he passed the lockers his year takes, and is in a corridor he doesn’t recognize. There are two guys further off, he might ask them – where are the third year lockers, and what time is it, and by the way do they know where to fake a licence to row – but then he doesn’t. He watches the one standing in his line of view – a snapback, funny ears, funny nose – push textbooks into the locker, and then stuff some notebooks on the top. The other guy laughs and says you’re never gonna make it work man, and then he, he winds up and turns so fast, and laughs back,

‘Oh, yeah? Better fucking watch me.’

Even does.

 

 

II.

Sonja calls late, but not too late. She never is too late. She asks, how was Nissen, and he says, high schoolers you know, and she laughs, and he breathes. Good. It used to be exciting – to hear her voice, and to be heard by her, and to whisper a little, as if they were still fourteen and surprised to be in love. Well, then he figured it out. If he speaks too quick, or too much, or too random, or – or, or, then Sonja will ask, and how do you sleep, and how do you eat, and do you smoke. He used to lie but she knew. She’d cry. It’s a fun habit they made in the summer, the summer after Sonja graduated and he fucked up.

How is work, he asks quick, but not too quick. She takes a moment to answer, and Even knows she measures now, what to tell, and how much to tell, how not to upset the balance. It’s not unfair. He did, as she put it, take it badly when she said she would work – she would take a year and put off the uni – wait for Even. It was – July – August? – he doesn’t know: the summer lasted forever, lasted a dead hour, an hour he spent on the floor with the curtains down and the summer wind fan on. Sonja came by and sat next to him, and said, she would wait. For him. He said he didn’t need – this, her. And she – as if she had known he would be a problem – just sighed: you do though.

And now, she says, work is fine, my boss is a dick. Even would ask if she wanted him to come and beat her dick boss up but then she would ask why so violent, and then, shit. So he doesn’t ask. And she doesn’t ask. Still – they whisper.

 

He doesn’t ask her where to fake a licence for rowing.

They used to row on their cabin weekends, in a green fiord. It was on a boat where he told Sonja – well, a few things. It was good for secrets, the boat. You were bound there by the depth of the water and by the distance from the shore. You had to survive it. No escape. He returns to a secret he didn’t regret to have told. They were sixteen – Sonja had long hair, and a cute jean shirt. The day was warm and the sky was almost white with the sunlight, and Even talked, and talked, and talked, and finally he said, well, he wasn’t – straight. Might be – bi. Sonja nodded, and pulled the oars from the water, gently laid them in the hollow of the boat. She said, okay and, after a while, she said, thank you for telling me, and then, rolling the loose thread from the shirt round her thumb, the thumb turning little purple, then she asked, what now? He smiled, now you know. She blinked, like – oh? and, he grins at the memory of it, her: I expected you to like, ask me if I’m okay with a threesome, or whatever. He laughed and almost capsized the boat, and she laughed too. Later, she let him unbutton her cute jean shirt.

He doesn’t ask her now – does she remember it? He doesn’t tell her his secrets, and memories, and stories. He doesn’t tell her, there is a shot he would like to take. And the shit, like – the tourists he heard on the tram, he was sure they were Danish and they asked him directions, and he gave them the directions, but all the time he pretended to be American, he was bored. Though – it would be nice to tell it, to have a somebody to.

 

 

III.

He blinks but here it is, on the margin of the notebook, the date. September date. It’s autumn and he is here, and he hasn’t set a reminder on the phone: eat, shower, deodorant – in a while now. What’s up man, Anders asks – with a smile ready because Even, well, Even has been real fun for the past few weeks here. He made it. He is here – but the sky behind the window is blue and so is the water. He is here but he shouldn’t be – he is here but Sonja isn’t – he is here but here is just here and beyond there is an ocean.

 

Sonja turns another page. It’s an Alice Munro novel, Even doesn’t like it. Or he didn’t like the other – whatever. He’s never been a fan of realism – he said, it might be realist but it’s not true – what people do is not how they live – to be true to people’s experiences is to be true to people’s minds – and when you are in love, even if it is in the middle of the fuck nowhere, Ontario, it feels like _Moulin Rouge_. Sonja,  eyes still on the page, just hummed: oh, does it? And Even was terrified for a moment, if he ruined it for her, too. Love. It feels like a bang and a diamond and a musical number – but how can it, if the one you are in love with is – is – well, is Even. So.

 

And there is a wrong or a lack – like, the shade of the light in the classroom is strange, the banana Even buys in the cafeteria is too ripe – he’s not a fan of the day he’s having – but then, Even sees Isak. Two tables on the right, there he is. No snapback, the other blue adidas jacket, the phone in his hand –  then, Isak smiles. Even looks down, considers the gross banana peel. Looks up. Well. Good-fuckin’-luck.

 

 

IV.

The name comes last. Friend of a friend, of a friend, she once hooked up with Jonas who was his friend, a friend of Isak’s. Isak, Even knows long before he gets the name, is a second year. He takes the tram to school, sometimes Even’s. He always listens to music on the ride, head rested against a pole, or a window. Sometimes, he falls asleep there and when the tram stops at Nissen, he violently shakes awake. Even knows the number of Isak’s locker, his table at the cafeteria, and the window sill he curls on with a textbook before his fourth period on Friday. Even figures it must be Physics. He knows when Isak has German and he knows when Isak has P.E. He likes Isak’s accent, and he likes Isak’s gym shorts, and he likes his knees. He likes Isak’s laugh – sudden and croaky – and he likes the face Isak makes whenever Jonas teases him. Sometimes, Isak talks with other guys and sometimes, he talks with girls. Sometimes, Even tries to work out if Isak goes out with any. He doesn’t care – not too much – because, even if, and there would follow many conditions, all Even would like is, well. Just to hang out, really.

 

And there must be parties, house parties or parties at bars and clubs, some parties Isak goes to. Even could ask anyone – Anders, the revue crowd – and he could go. Style his hair up and try for the James Dean look. Hell, he could get in touch with the people from Bakka, get a joint – or two – or whatever. He could roll to a party like it’s no big deal and wait: wait for Isak to go up to the bar alone, or to step out on the porch to have a smoke, or to drop on the sofa. And then, Even could join – hello and done. All casual.

He doesn’t. He would miss the call from Sonja. He would lie, and she would know. He wouldn’t lie, and she would ask, why didn’t he go with her, and he would lie – or he wouldn’t lie, and he would say there was somebody he just liked to be with, alone. Then, she would tell him why it wasn’t true. Or – or he wouldn’t miss the call. Let’s say Sonja wouldn’t call. He would talk with Isak and he would go home, and he wouldn’t lie. What then? A year and he will be gone – back in his life, back to Sonja. In the water. Here is just here.

 

But he has a name, so he looks. It’s the golden hour, October afternoon, tea with honey on his bedside. He has a cold and rests at home, uneasy with it: no shower, pyjamas at noon, all these reminders of other sicknesses. So – he looks. Facebook and Instagram, memes, pictures of Isak, more pictures of Jonas, and one with a girlfriend, overposed. Even stays there and looks for a sign. He doesn’t see any. Just to kill time, he checks Jonas’ profile too. There’s a video – last weekend – and Even opens it, just a little too fast.

It’s a parking lot and Isak lies on the ground, neon pink. The night is dark and blurry. Jonas talks, so we were gonna get some milkshakes but Isak here, and the video zooms in, the focus on the pixels of Isak’s chin right now. Isak grunts, and Jonas goes on, he decided it’s a nap time now – Isak bro. The camera moves to Isak’s flickering eyelids. Bro.

‘What,’ Isak says sore. Get up. Isak’s eyes close, then open. ‘Eh. No.’ What do you mean, eh no. ‘I mean,’ Isak’s voice breaks and his eyes wander to Jonas, to McDonalds lights. Nice eyes, dark. They widen and still, and Isak whispers, ‘Oh fuck, do you see – there is a, uh, a – over there!’

Jonas laughs and turns. He drops the phone – the video goes black but Jonas is audible, holy fuck, it’s a fox. A fox. It’s fucking beau –

Then, the battery dies. The video plays again, and again.

 

He doesn’t go to a party and he doesn’t make a new account to follow Isak, or to follow Jonas. He watches the video. He remembers: Bakka, Sonja. A year and he will be gone. But he sees Isak at school and the world contracts. To a space small and simple, a space to cross with two strides and a hello. It would be the easiest thing – to just do this.

 

 

V.

The lights out and he between lucidity and death, he returns to the buoy stuck on a tree, the anchor swung loose. He listens to the radio on his phone but the signal is off and the static roars in his ears like an ocean. He opens an unsent message to Sonja. Sometimes it is, _I met somebody_ and sometimes it is, _When did it stop to feel like Moulin Rouge_ , and sometimes it is just a lyric, a photo he took, a question mark. What now? He never sends it. He puts the phone on the bedside. With closed eyes he sees if he can list all the blue clothes Isak’s worn since September. He can. He does. The rain doesn’t stop. Fuck it – it flashes – like thunder, like an emergency  alarm. Fuck snow and fuck June.

 

 

VI.

He looks at Isak and now, Isak looks back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from anne carson's "autobiography of red"; it goes 'and there it was one of those moments / that is the opposite of blindness. / The world poured back and forth between their eyes once or twice'. i've been waiting to use it as a description of the cafeteria scene.
> 
> there are three tmg songs i listened to planning / writing - 'autoclave', 'there will be no divorce' and their cover of 'the sign'.
> 
> always happy to talk either here or zielenna @ tumblr


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